Just announced at the Book Expo America in New York: My book 99 Jobs: Blood, Sweat, and Houses has won the 2014 IRDA First Place as the "Best Non-Fiction of the Year." (IRDA is IndieReader Discovery Award, sponsored by IndieReader.com.) Not "among the best." Not "one of the top five." They called it "THE BEST." First place. The best non-fiction indie book of 2014.
I'm feeling a little proud.
In addition to the honor, the prize includes a free Kindle Paperwhite 3G. I've never had an e-reader, so this will be a new experience for me.
But -- wow. "The best." If you see me smiling, now you know why.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Peter Korn is a writer, an educator, a furniture maker. As a craftsman he discovered that he couldn't make a living -- or sustain a marriage -- chiseling mortise and tenon joints one by one, chair by chair. He could teach, though. And he could write. In this book, he's a philosopher as he tries to come to grips with what it means to be a craft worker.
We view books through our own personal filters, so here's mine: what interested me was not the philosophy but the memoir aspect, the people Korn met and his own growth as a person and as a furniture maker. He started like me as a carpenter on a construction crew. He had some advantages I never had -- a private school education, Ivy League college, a father who continually bailed him out of business failures and personal setbacks. I envy that. He had Hodgkin's disease and chemotherapy -- twice. I don't envy that. He developed his own furniture style and then really found his calling as an educator, founding and running the Center for Furniture Craftsmanship in Rockport, Maine. I applaud that.
Korn traces the history of how society has changed its appreciation of craft -- first as work, then as skill, and finally as art. Eventually Korn realizes that by embracing a life of craft he was seeking self-fulfillment, seeking "a good life." He also realizes that craft alone is not salvation. He witnesses one man who is a great craftsman but fails in most other aspects of life.
Craft itself can be an attempt at redemption. To create something good, one must know something good:
Every man-made thing, be it a chair, a text, or a school, is thought made substance. It is the expression of someone's ... ideas and beliefs.This book, along with the furniture he made and the school he created, are the expressions of Peter Korn's beliefs. He found his good life.
My father sang a song to me, and then we would sing it together: The bear went over the mountain (repeated three times). And what do you think he saw? He saw another mountain (repeated three times). And what do you think he did? The bear went over the mountain...
And on we'd sing. And so it is. As a maker you put one foot in front of the other and you own the journey. Finding creative passion that governs your life may be a curse as well as a blessing, but I would not trade it for anything else I know.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
A hundred and nineteen years later, in 1974 an obscure writer named Joe Cottonwood self-published his first novel, The Naked Computer. Different outcome.
Well, okay, semi-self-published. At a San Francisco book fair I met a bearded, bespectacled young man (let's call him Manny) who was hoping to become a small publisher. Manny had just bought a used letterpress and was anxious to try it out. He would set the type himself at no cost. I would pay the other expenses: ink, paper, glue. He'd get half the books and try to sell them; I'd do the same.
By the 1970s most books were printed by offset printing, with letterpress reserved for artisanal, high quality, limited editions by small publishers. Here was an offer to produce my novel in a letterpress edition with a small publisher imprint at a very low cost. I was delighted.
So Manny went to work. Badly. With difficulties. The letterpress, in a damp corner of a garage in San Francisco, required hot metal typesetting. A flaw in the Linotype machine allowed hot metal to drip onto the feet of Manny as he was sitting at it, composing type.
Until he could repair the machine, Manny told me the book would be indefinitely delayed. Meanwhile, he showed me a few already-composed pages which contained numerous typos. When I pointed out all the transposed letters, he couldn't see them. He was simply blind to them. In retrospect, I think he was dyslexic. (At the time, I'd never heard of dyslexia.) Reluctantly he agreed to fix the errors.
Months passed. Manny could not repair the Linotype. I gave up on the book and was busy writing another. And then one day Manny called to say that his mother had flown out from Brooklyn, bringing chicken soup, and she had repaired the machine. He printed 400 copies of The Naked Computer. I paid him, as I recall, something like $450.
In classical bookbinding, several pages are printed onto one large sheet of paper, called a signature. When properly folded and combined, these signatures become the leaves of the book. Manny, I learned, was signature-challenged. Due to faulty folding, about half the copies had their pages in the wrong order or else some pages were simply missing. The remaining 200 copies were smudged and off-center. Typos everywhere. It was embarrassing.
A few copies sold at City Lights Bookstore and other shops. I even got a few fan letters. It was my first novel, and it was crappy but had (I believe) flashes of brilliance. The plot, by the way, is about a man who falls in love with his computer, which has been programmed as a female personality. Bear in mind that this was 1974!
I'm not accusing Spike of stealing my idea. I'm sure he's never heard of The Naked Computer. I'm sure many writers have had the same idea of a seductive siren-computer. But I may have been the first.
Some lessons learned. If you write a novel that is forty years ahead of its time, write it better. Avoid dyslexic typesetters. Wear shoes while operating a Linotype. Bless all handy mothers from Brooklyn.
There's one copy of The Naked Computer for sale on the Internet. The price is $131.50. Maybe I should put my two remaining copies out there. Who knows—I might yet break even.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
"a gritty and entertaining memoir"I'm delighted. In the main trade magazine of the big publishing industry, a good review by Publishers Weekly is an important stamp of approval for a small indie publisher such as myself.
"colorful characters and situations"
"Cottonwood's prose is lively and his stories often charming. Readers will find it easy to relate to the author and his experiences, which are likely to appeal to anyone who has worked a less-than-perfect job."
Friday, January 17, 2014
So I sent a copy of 99 Jobs to Mike Rose. He responded, and posted this review on Amazon: "This is a delightful book, full of engaging stories about work and working life. It is humane and warmly funny." He used a pseudonym to post the review, but he enthusiastically encouraged me to identify him and use the quote. Then he bought another copy and sent it to a craftsman-friend, who wrote back: "I've only read five paragraphs coming back from the mailbox and I'm already laughing out loud."
". . . a delightful book, full of engaging stories about work and working life. . . humane and warmly funny."Word of mouth, plus a couple of Amazon reviews, are my only publicity. A self-published book isn't going to get any help from the big media. You won't see 99 Jobs reviewed in the New York Times. Oprah won't be plugging it (though she might like it).
—Mike Rose, author of The Mind at Work.
If you've read 99 Jobs and happen to like it, please tell a friend. Maybe even post a review on Goodreads or Amazon. Help people find it.
A few days ago, the UPS driver delivered a package to my house and said, "Hey! I'm reading your book!" Somebody on the route had bought a copy for him. Made my day. I hope you all have a good one, too.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Back in the 1970s I published a vagabonding novel called Famous Potatoes. I used to get letters and still get email now and then that all say the same thing: somebody handed me this beat-up copy of Famous Potatoes, or I found it on a bookshelf in a commune in Nicaragua, or somebody in the Peace Corps left this in my hut in Africa, and so on… I think I must've sold about a dozen copies total which somehow have circulated all over the planet to be read by thousands of people. Not a profitable way to make a living, but great karma which will profit me someday.
Last week I got another of those emails. This time, It was from a man named Gene who had borrowed a copy of Famous Potatoes from his college friend in 1979, and then loaned his borrowed copy to, Gene writes, "a sixties holdover character who lived out of his car and in his lingering drugged out fog, at some point this guy vanishing and the friend's copy of Famous Potatoes disappearing with him. This struck me as a karmically fitting fate for Famous Potatoes but it struck my more literal-minded friend as me just having lost his copy of the book."
Ever since, apparently, Gene's friend has been giving him good-natured hell about losing the book in one of those tropes that run through a long friendship. After all these years, Gene found me on Facebook and wrote to me asking if there were a way to get another copy, so he could finally give it back to his friend. So I mailed an old beat-up copy of mine directly to the friend in New Jersey with the inscription: "Now stop giving Gene a hard time about this."
Last week, 34 years after loaning the book, it arrived in the mailbox of the unsuspecting friend. He immediately called Gene and said, "Holy shit. You are a man of your word. I’m sorry I ever doubted you. This is absolutely awesome. This is just unreal. Thank you.” Followed by: “How did you manage to copy Joe’s handwriting and make it look so real and get it sent out from California?”